His father sat at the head of the trestle table, on Wilhelm’s left. He put down his knife and wiped his hands on the cloth across his lap. Then he took a drink from his goblet and turned to Wilhelm.
“So, son, you are still scouring the country for Moncore.” He peered at him from beneath bushy eyebrows. “You’ll get him.”
Wilhelm remembered how his father had awed—and intimidated—him as a child. His greatest desire was to make his father proud of him. “Thank you, Father.”
His brows lowered in a scowl. “You must.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Your responsibility is to your people and to your betrothed. You must not let them down.”
Did his father say these things because he doubted him? He had worked hard to become mighty in strength and swordplay, believing that would please his father. But there was still one thing he had not been able to accomplish; one thing that would exalt him in the eyes of his father, as well as the entire region.
“Wilhelm.” His father nudged him with his elbow, pointing toward the far end of the table. A man dressed in leather hunting clothes stood near the door of the Great Hall. He nodded at Wilhelm, tucked his chin to his chest, and backed out of the room.
“Pray excuse me.” Wilhelm stood and stepped over the bench where he sat with his family and the guests who had come to welcome him home. He strode from the room.
“Lord Hamlin.” The courier stood in a shadowed corner of the corridor outside. He handed a folded parchment to Wilhelm then bowed and slipped out the door.
Wilhelm glanced at the wax seal, confirmed it was from his spies, then ripped open the missive.
Lord Hamlin, we have reason to believe Moncore is in our region. Be on your guard.
Wilhelm crumpled the note in his fist. “Glory to God.”
After Wilhelm’s six years of failing to locate the evil conjurer, the fiend had come to him.
If he were able to capture Moncore, he could tell his future father-in-law, the Duke of Marienberg, to bring his daughter out of hiding. Wilhelm’s betrothed would finally be safe.
But Moncore had eluded him before. The fact that one man had continued threatening Lady Salomea’s safety, despite Wilhelm’s best efforts, was a frustration like he’d never known, a splinter he couldn’t gouge out no matter how hard he tried.
With long strides, Wilhelm headed back into the Great Hall. He’d find Georg and Christoff and discuss where to hunt for Moncore. They would ride out in less than an hour.
Morning sunlight winked through the narrow window as Rose moved about the southwest tower. The only sounds were the blows of the blacksmith’s hammer ringing from the castle courtyard. She straightened jars of herbs, checked to see which of them needed to be replenished, and began sweeping up the old straw from the stone floor. Once finished, she would sprinkle new rushes and dried lilac over the chamber floors.
Rose so wanted to impress her mistress, but had failed miserably. Frau Geruscha never turned ashen at the sight of blood, never shrank from the bad smells, never grew squeamish when sewing up a wound.
O God, make me like Frau Geruscha.
Because one day she would be expected to take over her mistress’s healing work, Rose grew increasingly more desperate to be a good healer. If she returned home a failure, her mother would torment her until she accepted one of her suitors—a desperate widower with nine children, an old man with no teeth, anyone with a little money.
A commotion in the courtyard cut her musings short. She put her broom away in case the noise was the result of someone in need, coming to the healer for help.
As the shouts drew closer, her stomach knotted. Frau Geruscha was away and might not be back for several hours. Please, let them not be coming to see Frau Geruscha. She stood in the middle of the room and held her breath as she stared at the door, waiting.
“Frau Geruscha!” a masculine voice boomed. Someone pounded on the door.
Rose rushed to unlatch the door. Three men stood at the threshold. The middle one’s arms were draped over the shoulders of the other two. His head hung down so that she couldn’t see his face. Sweat dripped from the dark hair clinging to his brow.
She recognized the men on either side as the two knights who yesterday had traveled alongside Lord Hamlin and Lord Rupert. That meant the one in the middle was—
Lord Hamlin lifted his head, his face pale. His eyes riveted her with a look of pain.
Chapter 2
Rose couldn’t stand there gaping, so she spurred her mind to action. “Lay him on the bed. Where is he hurt?”
The two knights eased him down. “Right leg,” one of them said. “Wild boar gored him. Where’s Frau Geruscha?”
Of course they wanted Frau Geruscha, the healer, not her lowly apprentice. “She’s gone.”
“Where?” The man with the dirty blond hair barked the word, tension showing in the wrinkles between his eyes. “Where did she go? We’ll fetch her.”
“I know not. The woods somewhere, gathering herbs and visiting the sick.” She averted her eyes to Lord Hamlin’s leg, lest the man’s dismayed expression drain her of courage.
She sank to her knees beside Lord Hamlin. The dark stain on his hose indicated an injury on the outside of his calf. The boar’s tusk had sliced through his leather boot, its jagged edges dangling open. “Help me get this boot off.”
The knight nearest to her was twice her size, with red hair sticking straight up on top of his head. He bent over and tugged on the shoe.
“Ahhhg,” Lord Hamlin groaned.
Rose glanced up. Lord Hamlin’s eyes were closed and his features clenched in pain. Compassion squeezed her stomach like a fist.
Once the boot was off, blood dripped from his foot off the side of the bed. She grabbed a knife from a nearby shelf and half cut, half ripped the cloth away at his knee. The material stuck to his leg, held on by dried blood.
Running to the adjoining room, she fetched a bowl of water and a clean cloth. She dipped the cloth into the water and repeatedly soaked his leg until the water turned bright red.
She must not focus on the smell or sight of the blood, must not dwell on the fact that this was Lord Hamlin—the duke’s eldest son—bleeding all over the floor.
Gently, Rose pulled the cloth away from the jagged wound, which extended the length of his calf and looked very deep. Fresh blood oozed from the gash. She used her thumb and fingers to push the two edges together while pressing a linen cloth against it with her other hand, angrily commanding herself the whole time not to get sick.
Lord Hamlin moaned low in his throat.
Thinking about his pain made her stomach twist. Don’t think about it. Be like Frau Geruscha. What would Frau Geruscha do?
“You there.” She glanced up at the redheaded knight, who squatted beside her. “Hold this.”
The man dropped to his knees and pressed the bandage.
Rose stood and rushed into the storage room. She found the dried henbane and wormwood and put a spoonful of each into a cup, spilling some on the floor in her haste. A jar labeled poppy arrested her gaze. It couldn’t hurt. Rose threw in a spoonful, ladled hot water from the kettle into the cup, and carried it to Lord Hamlin.
His eyes were still closed, but when she approached, they flickered open and fixed her with a heavy-lidded gaze.
“Here.” She addressed the other knight, whose equally unkempt blond hair and beard were covered in dust. “Give him this tea.”
The man helped Lord Hamlin into a sitting position.
Rose knelt beside the knight holding the bandage. “I thank you,” she said.
The knight stood and she took his place. She held her breath and eased the cloth away from the wound. The bleeding had stopped.
The wound was ugly. She closed her eyes and tried not to think how much it must have hurt when the angry boar thrust its tusk into Lord Hamlin’s leg. She hoped it wouldn’t fester. The yellow pus that sometimes developed in wounds often led to death. O merciful God, let L
ord Hamlin’s leg not develop that telltale sign.
She would have to stitch up the wound. God, I don’t know if I can do it!
She had to do it.
His lids hung so low over his eyes, she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or not. She swallowed past the dryness in her throat. “This is when Frau Geruscha would pray for you, if she were here.”
“You pray for me, then.”
She made the sign of the cross. Her stomach fluttered at the thought of touching him again. But determined to follow Frau Geruscha’s example, she placed her hand on his bare leg. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, and by the blood of Jesus, heal Lord Hamlin’s leg. Amen.” Please, God. And help me not make a mess of this.
Opening her eyes, she saw the cup of tea still in his hand. He seemed to read her thoughts and took a gulp. Could he read the panic rising inside her?
She would give him some time to drink the tea before she attempted to sew up his wound, although she knew the tea would help very little. She hoped God would be merciful and he would pass out from the pain, as the little boy yesterday had done.
The prospect of what lay ahead forced Rose toward the window and she looked out, searching the only entrance into the castle. She willed Frau Geruscha to be there, straining her eyes, hoping, agonizing. But Frau Geruscha was nowhere in sight.
Lord Hamlin’s men were talking. “We were closing in on him,” the red haired one said. “He was hiding out in the cave.”
“Had it not been for the boars, we would have caught him,” the blond one answered.
“He must have sent demons into them, the way they came after us.”
So Lord Hamlin had been injured while searching for the evil Moncore. But now was not the time to think about Lord Hamlin’s valiance in trying to rescue his betrothed. Frau Geruscha was not coming. Rose was alone in caring for Lord Hamlin’s leg wound.
Wilhelm held the cup to his lips and watched the healer’s apprentice walk to the window, giving him a clear view of her profile. Her brown hair glowed in the sunlight that poured through the glass. Her nose and chin were small, her cheekbones high, and her lips full and perfect. He recognized her. She was the girl he’d seen on the street with the dog.
He knew about this girl. His father had recently approved Frau Geruscha’s request to have the maiden as her apprentice. If he remembered correctly, her name was Rose. She was a beauty, a woodcutter’s daughter who ordered his knights around as if they were lackeys. But he’d been betrothed since he was five years old, so he was used to guarding his heart. Besides, he wasn’t likely to be tempted by a woodcutter’s daughter—or a healer’s apprentice—no matter how beautiful.
Her wolfish dog sat in the corner of the room and eyed Wilhelm’s two knights, who were staring at Rose. The dog growled low in his throat, his forelegs pulled in tight, ready to spring at the men if the need arose.
Wilhelm studied Christoff and Georg. With a fair maiden in their midst, he knew his men too well to doubt their thoughts. He suddenly agreed with the dog. He didn’t want them staring at her.
“Christoff, Georg, you may go now.”
They tore their gaze away from Rose. “My lord?”
“Unless you want to watch her sew me up?” He raised his eyebrows.
The men seemed to realize what was coming and practically raced each other to the door. From outside, Christoff called, “We shall wait nearby.”
Wilhelm grinned at their haste. He brought the tea to his lips and drank until he had swallowed some of the leaves and all of the liquid, the bitter taste lingering on his tongue.
The maiden turned from the window with dread in her face. He hoped the tea worked. The pain in his leg made him clench his teeth, but he bit back a hiss, since the girl looked as though she might cry herself at any moment.
He set the cup on the floor and lay flat, letting his head sink into the prickly, straw-filled pillow. She placed a low stool next to him then rummaged through a basket at the foot of the bed and withdrew black string and a needle.
“So what is that you’re stitching me up with?” He forced his tone to sound calm, hoping to put them both at ease.
One side of her mouth went down as if she were avoiding his gaze. “Catgut, my lord.”
She stared down at the needle and he watched her draw in another big breath. She closed her eyes as she made the sign of the cross. Her lips moved silently, then her long lashes swept up, revealing warm brown eyes that brimmed with determination.
His heart beat faster.
“When Frau Geruscha sews up a wound, she tells the person to think about something else, to imagine they are in a favored, peaceful place.”
Wilhelm nodded and closed his eyes. He could do that. He wouldn’t think about the needle, the catgut, or his leg.
Her soft fingers, gentle and tentative, touched his bare leg, near the wound. But he couldn’t think about that, either. He’d think of a stream…Yes, with the sun glittering on it…a nice grassy bank and a big tree. The leaves are moving with the breeze…the grass is cool.
There it was, the stab of the needle piercing his flesh. His leg tensed in spite of himself. He forced a moan to the back of his throat. The tea wasn’t working.
I’m floating above the stream, watching the water glide over the rocks. The breeze rustles the leaves…birds are singing. The sun is bright and warm…
His eyes watered. He wanted to groan against the fiery pain reopening in his leg. He tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t see the stream or the tree or the grass anymore.
He opened his eyes. The maiden was bending low over his leg. Her hair fell like a curtain around her face, but she sat at an angle and so he had full view of her features. She bit her lower lip, and he thought he saw her chin quiver. Was that a tear glistening on her eyelashes?
The pain was intense, radiating from his leg to his whole body like flames of fire. He wanted to cry out, but he wouldn’t do that to her. No, he wouldn’t make a sound. Instead, he would concentrate on making her think he was asleep. He would relax each muscle in his body, starting with his legs…going up to his stomach…relaxing his arms…now his face. Yes, he was on the stream bank again, watching the leaves of the tree, hearing the water rush along.
Time seemed to stand still as he fought to ignore the pain. Sweat slid from his forehead into his eyebrows, into the corner of his eyes and down his cheeks, but he didn’t move to brush it away. At some point he stopped seeing the stream and tree and opened his eyes again. He saw Rose, her hair glowing in the sunlight, and heard her soothing voice.
“It’s almost over now.”
The pressure near the wound lifted as she removed her hands from his leg. He watched her disappear into the storage room.
Raising his head, he looked at the crisscross of black stitching. The whole area throbbed and burned, but he was relieved to see the wound closed.
Wilhelm collapsed back on the pillow, his thoughts filled with the maiden, Rose. He remembered the compassion emanating from her eyes. And that was the thing that had surprised him. Plenty of people were afraid of him, and he’d received many amorous looks from women, but he wasn’t sure he had ever seen such raw compassion.
He closed his eyes and saw her again as she’d looked standing at the window, and a warm, pleasurable sensation flooded him.
Must be the herbs.
Out of sight of her patient, Rose sobbed silently into her hands. It was over now. She hadn’t mishandled the stitching too badly—she hoped. Thanks be to God, Lord Hamlin must have sunk into unconsciousness halfway through.
She stopped crying and wiped her face with a cloth. She poured some water into a basin and washed her hands, rubbing her cuticles where Lord Hamlin’s blood had dried black.
The sweat had poured off his brow while she worked on his leg. She should get a damp cloth to wipe his face. She poured cool water from the pitcher onto a clean bandage. Her hands shook and the water dribbled onto the floor.
A
s Rose emerged from the storage room and walked toward Lord Hamlin, she thought his eyelids flickered but hoped he was still unconscious. She hesitated beside his bed. Wipe the face of the duke’s son? If she knew he wouldn’t wake up she would gladly perform that small act of kindness.
His chest rose and fell beneath his fine white shirt and hip-length, sleeveless doublet. Her gaze shifted to his face. She couldn’t pull her eyes away from his masculine features—strong chin, high cheekbones, thick lashes, and well-formed lips. The way his black hair curled and clung to his forehead gave him an endearing look. His arms and chest were well-muscled, possibly from his training in archery and swordplay. And now that she had seen him up close, her curiosity had been assuaged and she could tell Hildy—his eyes were blue, deeper and darker than a woodland pool.
Those eyes flicked open and fastened on her.
Rose inhaled sharply and thrust the cloth toward him.
He stared at it then reached and took it from her. “I thank you.” He wiped the sweat from his face.
Heart pounding, cheeks burning, she scurried back toward the storage room. She prayed he didn’t realize she’d been standing there visually examining him.
At least she hadn’t wiped his face.
When she returned, he had pulled himself into a half-sitting position and regained the color in his cheeks. His bare leg looked vulnerable on the white sheet. The black stitches stood out against his skin. She cringed. They looked like the crooked stitches of a child just learning to sew.
Rose sat on the stool, holding a long strip of clean linen. She tried to ignore Lord Hamlin’s steady gaze. Saints be praised, this is almost over.
She wrapped the bandage around the wound several times with one hand, awkwardly holding his leg up with the other. Finally, she tied a thin strip around it to hold it in place. Relief spread through her. It was done.